Alfonso Cuarón won best director for his semi-autobiographical Roma. Yalitza Aparicio (pic) is the first indigenous Mexican woman to be nominated for best actress at the Oscars.
The movie, filmed not so far from my own district when I was a child and teenager, is plagued with toxic messages. This was expected, as Cuarón is openly anti-racist, as I informed last year.
Frederic Leighton, The Return of Persephone (1891).
Editor’s note: In Greek mythology, Persephone was the Queen of the underworld, the young maiden, and a daughter of Demeter and Zeus. Her story had great emotional power in the Ancient World: an innocent maiden, a mother’s grief over her abduction, and great joy after her daughter is returned.
Vidal’s novel recreates how Julian became initiated in such mysteries at Eleusis.
______ 卐 ______
The next three days were beyond imagination. I was admitted to all of the mysteries, including the final and most secret. I saw that which is enacted, that which is shown and that which is spoken. I saw the passion of Demeter, the descent of Persephone to the underworld, the giving of grain to man. I saw the world as it is and the world that is to come. I lost my fear of death in the Telestrion when, in a blaze of light, I looked upon the sacred objects. It was true.
More than this I cannot write. It is forbidden to reveal anything that one sees and hears during the two nights spent in the Telestrion. But I will make one general comment, a dissent from Aristotle, who wrote: “The initiated do not learn anything so much as feel certain emotions and are put into a certain frame of mind.” First of all, one must question the proposition that a new emotion is not something learned. I should think that it was.
In any case, I have yet to meet anyone who has been initiated at Eleusis who did not learn new things not only about the life we live now but the one to follow. There is such a logic to what is revealed on those two nights that one is astonished not to have understood it before—which proves to me the truth of what is seen, heard and demonstrated. We are part of a never-ending cycle, a luminous spiral of life, lost and regained, of death to life to… but now I begin to tell too much.
Priscus: He tells altogether too much. But that was his charm, except when he goes on altogether too long and becomes tedious. I know that you were initiated at Eleusis and doubtless feel much as he did about what is revealed there. I don’t. It is possible that if I had gone through all the nonsense of initiation, I might have had a “revelation”. But I doubt it. There are some natures too coarse to apprehend the mysteries. Mine is one. Nowadays of course we can write with a certain freedom of the mysteries since they are drawing to an end. The Emperor is expected to shut down the Telestrion as soon as he feels the time is politically fight. Naturally, the bishops lust for the destruction of Eleusis, which to me is the only argument for preserving it.
I am cool to the mysteries because I find them vague and full of unjustified hope. I do not want to be nothing next year or next minute or whenever this long life of mine comes to its end (of course it does not seem at all long to me, not long enough by half!). Yet I suspect that “nothing” is my fate. Should it be otherwise, what can I do about it? To believe as poor Julian did that he was among the elect as a result of a nine-day ceremony, costing some fifteen drachmae, not counting extras, is to fall into the same nonsense we accuse the Christians of when we blame their bitter exclusivity and lunatic superstition.
I had no idea Macrina was so sensible until I read Julian’s account of their conversation at Eleusis. She might have made him a good wife. I had always assumed she only told him what he wanted to hear, like any other woman. She was rare, in her way; but not to my taste.
The remainder of Julian’s stay in Athens was uneventful. He was personally popular. The Sophists all tried to curry favour with him. It is remarkable how men supposedly dedicated to philosophy and things of the mind are drawn to power; affecting scorn for the mighty, they are inevitably attracted to those who rule. When the powerful man is as amiable and philosophy-loving as Julian, the resulting attempt to capture him is all the more unseemly.
Libanius: How typical of Priscus! He can hardly restrain his jealousy of me, and his resentment of my influence over Julian. Yet my interest in Julian was not self-seeking. How could it be? When I turned down the title of praetorian prefect, I said that the title Sophist was good enough for me. My gesture is still much remembered not only here in Antioch but everywhere philosophy is valued. Those of us who wish to lead others to wisdom respond to any questioning soul, prince or beggar.
Sometimes, as in the case of Maximus, Julian showed bad judgment, but by and large he cultivated the best minds of our era. I also find Priscus’s remarks about Eleusis distasteful, even atheistic. Cicero, who was hardly superstitious, wrote that if all else Athens had brought the world was swept away, the mysteries alone would be enough to place mankind for ever in Athens’ debt. Priscus has got worse with age. Envy festers. He was never a true philosopher. I find myself pitying him as I read his bitter commentary.
Priscus: In any case, when Julian looked with adoration at that sheaf of wheat which is revealed with such solemnity at the highest moment of the ceremony…
Libanius: This is absolute blasphemy! These things must not be revealed. Priscus will suffer for this in the next world, while who ever betrayed to him our high secret will sink for ever in dung. It is appalling!
Priscus:… he felt duly elated, believing that as the corn withers, dies and is reborn, so it is with us. But is the analogy correct? I would say no. For one thing, it is not the same sheaf of wheat that grows from the seed. It is a new sheaf of wheat, which would suggest that our immortality, such as it is, is between our legs. Our seed does indeed make a new man but he is not us. The son is not the father. The father is put in the ground and that is the end of him. The son is a different man who will one day make yet another man and so on—perhaps for ever—yet the individual consciousness stops.
Libanius: I hate Priscus! He is worse than a Christian. Homer believed. Was Homer wrong? Of course not.
Priscus: Julian did nothing to offend the Christians in Athens, though it was fairly well known that he tended towards philosophy. But he was discreet. On at least one occasion he attended church.
The Hierophant liked him but thought he was doomed, or so he told me years later. The Hierophant was an interesting man. But of course you knew him for you were admitted to the mysteries during his reign. He realized with extraordinary clarity that our old world was ended. There were times, I think, when he took pleasure in knowing he was the last of a line that extended back two thousand years. Men are odd. If they cannot be first, they don’t in the least mind being last.
Editor’s note: Yesterday I saw a clip of Kevin MacDonald and Richard Spencer, in which both talk about the Jewish question. It might be very strange to say what I’m about to say: but he who, unlike MacDonald and Spencer and their purple pills, is fully aware of the Judeo-Christian question, has taken the red one.
Below, Catherine Nixey talks about the great metamorphosis in the Aryan psyche that occurred when they not only destroyed the white religion (white gods-statues, temples, Greco-Roman texts, laws and culture), but when all whites had to submit to the psyop of the god of the Jews—a programming to the very core of their beings.
Those who have not rejected monotheism with my vehemence are not fully awakened.
______ 卐 ______
As the world’s first century of Christian rule drew to a close and the fifth century opened, the effects of this conquest were everywhere to be seen. In Italy, Gaul, Greece, Spain, Syria and Egypt, temples that had stood for centuries were falling, shutting, crumbling. Brambles began to grow across disused ruins, as the mutilated faces of gods looked on silently.
An entire way of life was dying. Writers in the ancient world who had held out against the Christian religion struggled to put their feelings into words. In a bleak epigram Palladas asked, ‘Is it not true that we are dead and only seem to live, we Greeks… Or are we alive and is life dead?’ Their old society was being swept away. The banner of the cross, in Gibbon’s resonant phrase, was being erected on the ruins of the Capitol in Rome.
But, according to some of the most famous preachers of the time, even this was not enough to satisfy the Christian God… He wanted—He demanded—the hearts and minds of every single person within the empire.
And, these clerics threatened, He would know if He didn’t get them. As preachers in the fourth century started to warn their congregations, God’s all-seeing gaze followed you everywhere. He didn’t only see you in church; you were also watched by Him as you went out through the church doors; as you went out into the streets and as you walked round the marketplace or sat in the hippodrome or the theatre. His gaze also followed you into your home and even into your bedroom—and you should be in no doubt that He watched what you did there, too.
That was not the least of it. This new god saw into your very soul. ‘Man looketh on the face, but God on the heart,’ thundered Cyprian, the Bishop of Carthage. ‘Nothing that is done is hidden from God.’ There was, congregations across the empire were warned, no escape: ‘Nothing, whether actually done or only intended, can escape the knowledge of God’—or His ‘everlasting punishment of fire’.
Many Roman and Greek-intellectuals had shown profound distaste for such an involved deity. The idea that a divine being was watching every move of every human being was, to these observers, not a sign of great love but a ‘monstrous’ absurdity…
No, declared the Christian clerics. His attention was a sign of His great love for man. As too was His punishment. For make no mistake, God was not merely a disinterested observer of men’s souls. He would judge them—and He would punish them.
• $1000 and $500 recurring donations from C.P. last year
• October $300 donation from M.B.
• October, November, December and January $100 and $10 recurring donations from R.M.
• October and December $100 donations from S.C.
• November $10 donation from D.F.
• December $100 recurring donations from Roger M.
• November, December, January and February $10 recurring donations from J.R.
Also I would like to thank all those who have purchased copies of the few books published by my Daybreak Press, The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour, Christianity’s Criminal History, Day of Wrath and also Hojas Susurrantes and ¿Me Ayudarás?, the latter recently requested for the first time in the US.
by Tom Goodrich
Just as at Dachau, when the American army reached the various German concentration camps with dozens of reporters and cameramen in tow, the viewers were horrified by what they saw. The thousands of dead, emaciated bodies seemed proof of the propaganda they had read about for years; proof that the Nazi regime had indeed been engaged in a deliberate policy of mass murder and extermination of Jews. Certainly, men like the political generals, Eisenhower and Marshall, and the willing propagandists themselves, knew better. But with carefully crafted words, and now with photos and film of bodies, it would be an easy sell to millions in the US, Europe and others around the world.
And so, thus began phase two of the vicious propaganda war against Germany. The first phase had begun with the election of Adolf Hitler and continued down to the war’s end. The second phase would continue from the so-called “peace” and occupation of Germany right through to the present moment. On cue, from their first footfalls into Germany, hate-filled propagandists like the following began the coordinated psychological attack on the occupied Reich, on her people, on every man, woman and child.
“You must expect to atone with toil and sweat for what your children have committed and for what you have failed to prevent,” warned one Allied spokesman on camera as horrified German civilians were forced to parade in penance through the Belsen concentration camp. A place like Belsen was, the man continued, “such a disgrace to the German people that their name must be erased from the list of civilized nations.”
Given the circumstances, the fate of those Germans living near this and other concentration camps was as tragic as it was perhaps predictable. After compelling the people to view the bodies, American and British officers forced men, women and children to dig up with their hands the rotting remains and haul them to burial pits. Wrote a witness at one camp:
All day long, always running, men and women alike, from the death pile to the death pit, with the stringy remains of their victims over their shoulders. When one of them dropped to the ground with exhaustion, he was beaten with a rifle butt. When another stopped for a break, she was kicked until she ran again, or prodded with a bayonet, to the accompaniment of lewd shouts and laughs. When one tried to escape or disobeyed an order, he was shot.
Few victors, from Eisenhower down, seemed to notice, and fewer seemed to care, that conditions similar to Dachau and the other concentration camps existed in cities and towns throughout much of Germany. Because of the almost total paralysis of the Reich’s roads, rivers and rails caused by around-the-clock air attacks, supplies of food, fuel, clothes, and medicine had thinned to a trickle in the devastated German communities and dried up almost entirely at the concentration camps. As a consequence, thousands of camp inmates swiftly succumbed in the final weeks of the war to disease, starvation and neglect. When pressed by a friend if there had indeed been a deliberate policy of extermination, one of the few guards lucky enough to escape another camp protested:
“It wasn’t like that, believe me; it wasn’t like that! I’m maybe the only survivor who can witness to how it really was, but who would believe me!””Is it all a lie?””Yes and no,” he said. “I can only say what I know about our camp. The final weeks were horrible. No more rations came, no more medical supplies. The people got ill, they lost weight, and it kept getting more and more difficult to keep order. Even our own people lost their nerve in this extreme situation. But do you think we would have held out until the end to hand the camp over in an orderly fashion if we had been these murderers?”
____________
Editor’s note: The footnotes have been omitted in the quotations above. Summer 1945is a book that exposes the atrocities committed by the United States in Japan and Germany. If the reader wants a book by the same author that only talks about the allied atrocities in Germany, obtain a copy of Hellstorm, The Death of Nazi Germany: 1944-1947 (sample chapter: here).
“Not by speeches and votes of the majority, are the great questions of the time decided… but by iron and blood”. —Otto von Bismarck
(*) Nicht durch Reden und Majoritätsbeschlüsse werden die großen Fragen der Zeit entschieden… sondern durch Eisen und Blut.
Since prehistory, man-woman relationships have never been in such a psychotic state as they are today in the West. Those neophytes to the subject who have not read anything could start by means of an academic reading (Roger Devlin) or a crude reading (MGTOW). But here I would like to approach a question: How to treat women in the darkest hour for the white race?
Visitors to this site will be familiar with one of my guidelines for the priest of the fourteen words: ‘Speak only with Aryan males’. That does not mean that it is impossible to communicate with any woman. Visitors know that this site regularly quotes Catherine Nixey’s book about the destruction of the Greco-Roman world by Christians. Also, in the forums that defend the West there are a few women who also represent the exception that confirms the rule. A directive is only a directive, not an iron rule.
But in general terms it is almost impossible to communicate the most serious issues with the bulk of the female population. It is obvious that they come from Venus and we from Mars, and their PC Operating System is not exactly compatible with our Macs. That does not mean that we despise them. It means that the yin is not the Yang but its complement. I will explain it through my personal philosophy.
As some visitors know, I have written two thick autobiographical volumes (and I am writing the third one). Day of Wrath, the English translation of selected chapters of those two volumes, is partial in one respect. The translations are texts that appeal to the left hemisphere of our brain, texts that men are capable of understanding. But the autobiographical part of my two volumes is missing in Day of Wrath because it appeals to the right hemisphere. Those are texts in which women understand me better (and this site is for Aryan males).
No man among those to whom I have given them manuscripts from my first volume, Hojas Susurrantes, has understood me. But I’ve received very good feedback from a couple of women. With men I cannot communicate heart problems for the simple reason that they have not developed their soul well.
Years ago I mentioned the concept of the eternal feminine in this site and in the previous incarnation of The West’s Darkest Hour but did not explain it because it is a numinous feeling rather than an intellectual concept. A male balanced in yin and Yang could decode the double helix, Mars and Venus, from my books written in the language of Cervantes. But not everyone has developed his soul (among white nationalists, Tom Goodrich is the exception). Anima means in Latin soul. In the analytical psychology of Carl Gustav Jung, he alludes to the archetypal images of the eternal feminine in the unconscious of a man, which form a link between the consciousness of the “I” and the collective unconscious, potentially opening a path to the Self. (To understand these concepts, see the illustrations on the anima in the illustrated book Man and his Symbols of Jung and his female disciples, or at least this diagram.)
The reason that among men we cannot communicate in matters that most concern our feelings is simple. To communicate those issues one has to cry sometimes and the feedback of s/he who listens to the tragedy must be at the emotional level, not through the cold and intellectual reason. Women can communicate with each other for the simple fact that it is common for them to touch each other, comfort themselves, cry a little and hug each other without an iota of lesbianism. But we heterosexual men cannot do that with another man (I for one even dislike my cousins wanting to hug me in public). Men can talk about very abstract issues, but communicating alone with a friend about intimate problems is not our strength.
In such parallel universes are men in matters of the heart that, when a man in deep depression tries to speak out with his best friend over the phone, the typical friend without empathy or genuine compassion tells him such idiotic thing that he is shocked when, a couple of hours later, he learns that the depressed friend has just committed suicide. It’s a story I’ve heard more than once.
So the nuclear content of my two books has not appeared on this site, nor will it appear. I know from experience that a tragedy becomes a non-tragedy in the ears of Neanderthal men because they have not sufficiently developed the soul that Jung talked about. In plain English, since we straight men cannot touch ourselves and cry as women do, we cannot communicate our most serious existential problems among ourselves. That is why Schopenhauer was correct in advising us to have a woman as a confidant of such problems. The stronghold of women, Schopenhauer observed, is the compassion that, according to the philosopher, is the highest of human virtues. Therefore, since the middle 1990s I have had a female friend with whom I can communicate the yin content of my mind. It is not recommended to be romantically involved with this confidant because that would cloud the relationship into other venues.
Now let’s go to the opposite case. Compassionate women, in general terms, are unable to understand the cold reasons of the manly intellect. Few have a developed animus. Animus means, in Latin, mind, intellectual powers or courage. In Jung’s analytical psychology, he alludes to the archetypal images of the eternal masculine in the unconscious of a woman, which form a link between the consciousness of the “I” and the collective unconscious, potentially opening a path to the Self. (Again, to understand the concept see the illustrations on the animus in Man and its Symbols.)
Given that the bulk of women do not have a developed animus, it is useless to make them dizzy with lots of Jared Taylor-type statistics on race realism. We have to tune into their wavelength. Bear in mind that I have been communicating with the aforementioned woman for a couple of decades, and I can say that Schopenhauer was right: I see things that she cannot see, and she sees things in life that I am unable to see.
All the intellectual content of the white nationalist forums is useless when talking to women, especially if they come from the left (the left perverts the natural compassion of white women). The priests of Lane’s words should only try to communicate something that appeals to their vanity, say: If I am in favour of the ethnostate it’s simply because I don’t want your beauty to disappear (through miscegenation). For these words to have a certain weight on the female in question, there may not be any romantic interest involved in the priest who pronounces them.
The italicised words above could even become a mantra, and it is the only thing that the priest of the 14 words is advised to say to the opposite sex, in case one of them challenges us to an intellectual discussion. Regarding Jung’s psychology I could philosophise a little saying that the ‘Absolute’ of Schelling and Hegel resonates with the Jungian ‘Self’ and, from the Faustian point of view, only the understanding of the eternal feminine will lead the white race to the Absolute.
During the weeks that followed, we saw each other every day. Yet I came to know the Hierophant no better. On any subject not connected with the mysteries, he refused to speak. I gave up talking to him, accepting him as what he was: a palpable link with the holy past but not a human companion.
I need not describe the celebrations which precede the initiation, since they are known to everyone. Though I may not describe the mysteries themselves, I can say that in this particular year more people took part in the festivities than usual, to the chagrin of the Galileans.
The whole business takes nine days. The first day was hot and enervating. The proclamation was made and the sacred objects brought from Eleusis to the Eleusinion, a small temple at the foot of the acropolis where—among other interesting things—there is a complete list of Alcibiades’ personal property, seized when he profaned the mysteries one drunken night by imitating on a street corner the Hierophant’s secret rites. The sacred objects are contained in several jars tied with red ribbons. They are put in the Eleusinion, to be returned to Eleusis during the main procession, which is on the fifth day.
On the second day, we bathed in the sea and washed the pig each of us had bought for sacrifice. I chose the beach at Phaleron, and nearly lost the pig I had bought for six drachmae. It is an amazing sight to watch several thousand people bathing in the sea, each with a squealing pig.
The third day is one of sacrifice, and a long night.
The fourth day is sacred to Asklepios; one stays at home. On the fifth day the procession starts from the Dipylon Gate to Eleusis.
It was a lovely sight. An image of the god Iacchos, son of Demeter, is borne in a wooden carriage at the procession’s head. This part of the ceremony is sacred to him. Though all are supposed to walk to Eleusis, most of the well-to-do are carried in litters. I walked. My bodyguards complained, but I was exalted. I was crowned with myrtle and I carried not only the sacred branches tied with wool but also, according to tradition, new clothes in a bundle on a stick over my shoulder. Macrina accompanied me.
The day was cloudy, which made the journey pleasanter than it usually is at that time of the year. All told, there were perhaps a thousand of us in the procession, not counting the curious, which included a number of Galileans who shouted atheist curses at us.
On the outskirts of Athens, just off the main road, Macrina pointed to a complex of old buildings. “That is the most famous brothel in Greece,” she said with her usual delight in such things. “The shrine of Aphrodite.” Apparently, people come from all over the world to visit the shrine, where for a price they enjoy the “priestesses”. They pretend it is religion. Actually, it is mass prostitution. I could not disapprove more.
Just beyond the shrine there is an old bridge. Here the ordeal begins. On the bridge’s parapet sit men with faces covered by hoods. It is their traditional function to remind important people of their faults and to condemn their pride. I consoled myself by remembering that Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius had preceded me on this bridge. If they had survived humiliation, so could I.
“It won’t be bad.” Macrina tried to be reassuring. “They’re much too frightened of Constantius.” But I recalled how Hadrian had been jeered for his love of Antinoüs, and Hadrian was a reigning emperor, not mere cousin to one. I was sweating as we reached the bridge. All eyes were upon me. The hooded men—at least thirty of them—had just finished tormenting a local magistrate. They turned now to me. Macrina held my arm tight. Heart beating fast and eyes cast down, I walked slowly over the bridge. The jeering and curses were formidable. At first I tried not to listen, but then I recalled that this humiliation is an essential part of the mysteries: to rid oneself of pride. I listened. I was accused mostly of falseness and pretension. I was not a true scholar. I was a poseur.I looked like a goat. I was a coward and afraid to serve in the army (this was unexpected). I hated the Galileans. This made me nervous indeed but happily, it was said only once. After all, my tormentors were of the true religion and not apt to hold my dislike of the Galileans against me.
Finally, the bridge was crossed. The ordeal ended. Feeling purged and relieved (the worst is never so bad as one fears), I walked the rest of the way to Eleusis, with Macrina grumbling at my side. I’m afraid she taunted me quite as much as the men on the bridge. But as I drew closer to the mysteries, I was filled with such a sense of expectancy that nothing could disturb my mood.
It was night when we arrived at Eleusis. The city is a small one on the Saronic Gulf, with a view of the island of Salamis. Like most cities whose principal source of revenue is strangers, Eleusis is full of inns and cookshops and tradesmen eager to sell copies of sacred objects at ridiculously high prices. It is a wonder that any place remains sacred, considering the inevitable presence of those whose livelihood depends on cheating strangers. I am told that Delphi is even worse than Eleusis; while Jerusalem—which is of course “sacred” to the Galileans—is now a most distressing place to visit.
Torches blazed in every street of the town. Night was like day. Innkeepers solicited us, and at every street corner, men told of places to eat. Even vice was proposed, which shows how debased the local population is, for they should know better than anyone that during the pilgrims’ three days in Eleusis, they must fast, remain continent, and touch neither the body of one dead nor that of a woman who has just given birth; eggs and beans are also forbidden us, even after the first day’s fast.
Macrina and I followed the crowd to where the mysteries are enacted. Homer has described how the original temple was at the foot of the acropolis, in much the same spot as the present temple, or Telestrion, as it is called. This night everything was illuminated in honour of the Great Mysteries.
The entrance to the sacred enclosure is through a gate, even more noble than the Dipylon at Athens. We entered, passing through a roped-off section where guards and priests made sure that we were indeed initiates, remarkable by our dress and certain signs. The gate is so cunningly arranged that anyone looking through can see no more than a few yards of the sacred way; any further view of the Telestrion is broken by the large blank wall of the Ploutonion, a temple built over the original passage to Hades from which Persephone appeared.
Eyes smarting from torch smoke, Macrina and I ascended the sacred way, pausing first at the Kallichoros Well. I was overcome with awe, for this is the same well described by Homer. It is old beyond memory. It was here in the time when the gods walked the earth that the women of Eleusis danced in honour of Demeter.
Roman copy of Demeter after a Greek original from the
4th century BC. Compare it with the Roman mudblood kid
already at the beginning of the Christian Era in my previous post.
The opening of the well is several steps below the main terrace, and faced with magnificent marble. Near it stands a large basin containing sacred water. I bathed my hands and began to know Demeter and her grief. I was so moved that I almost neglected to pay the priestess the one drachma for the experience.
Next we entered the Ploutonion, which is set in a rocky hollow of the acropolis. The elmwood doors were shut to us, but the altar outside, cut in living rock, was illuminated.
Finally we came to the long stoa of Philon, which fronts the Telestrion. Beyond this blue-paved portico the blank façade of the holiest building on earth is set against the acropolis, which provides its fourth wall. There are greater and more splendid temples in the world, but there is none which quite inspires one’s reverence in the way the Telestrion does, for it has been holy since almost the first day of man, a creation of that beautiful lost world when the gods, not beleaguered, lived among us, and earth was simple and men good.
Since we were not yet initiates, we could not enter the Telestrion. At this point we were joined by two priests who led us to the house where the Eumolpidae have lived for a thousand years. We were to spend the night there. The Hierophant, however, did not join us. On this night of nights, he fasted and meditated.
Macrina and I sat up until dawn. “You must be admitted to the mysteries.” I scolded her, as I had done before.
But she was perverse. “How can I? I’m not one thing or the other. I don’t like the Christians because they are cruel. I don’t like the mysteries and all the rest because I don’t believe anything can help us when we are dead. Either we continue in some way, or we stop. But no matter what happens, it is beyond our control and there is no way of making a bargain with the gods. Consider the Christians, who believe there is a single god…”
“In three parts!”
“Well, yours is in a thousand bits. Anyway, if by some chance the Christians areright, then all this”—she gestured towards the Telestrion—“is wrong, and you will go to their hell rather than to your Elysium.”
“But the Galileans arewrong.”
“Who can say?”
“Homer. Thousands of years of the true faith. Are we to believe there was no god until the appearance of a rabble-rousing carpenter three hundred years ago? It is beyond sense to think that the greatest age of man was godless.”
“You must argue with the Twins,” said Macrina; then we spoke of matters which I shall not record.
Hunter Wallace has written two articles today about St. Augustine (here and here). This painting of the Roman Period (100-150 C.E.) from Egypt depicts a mudblood boy. Similarly, the African Augustine was not white. Scholars generally agree that Augustine and his family were Berbers, an ethnic group indigenous to North Africa. In his first article, Wallace chose a deceptive painting that shows the Punic theologian as if he had belonged to the white race.
The ignorance of Christians about the history not only of the Church but of the ethnic origin, and behavior, of many of the early Christians has always bothered me. For example, Wallace has Augustine as a champion of a decent life from the sexual point of view and, to contrast the Augustinian ways with the so-called ‘pagan’ ways, he uses an image of… a trannie child! But the historical Augustine could hardly be considered an example of moral decency. ‘He lived a long time in concubinage, later he took a girl as a girlfriend (she had almost two years to reach the legal age to get married: in girls twelve years) and at the same time a new darling’, as we saw in our translation of instalment 66 of Karlheinz Deschner’s Christianity’s Criminal History.
Another common issue in a number of Christians, including Wallace, is that they maintain a distorted image of the morality of the Greco-Roman world. These Christians focus a lot on an imperial Rome that had already committed the sin of miscegenation and was in full moral, ethnic and political decline. In apologetic articles rarely do they mention classical Greece before her decline, or Republican Rome before the gradual miscegenation that undermined it. My compilation The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour includes seven texts about Greece and Rome before their decline. The fact is that those pre-Christian Europeans were as puritanical in sexual matters as their Christian counterparts of subsequent centuries.
It’s about time that both white nationalists and American southerners read and assimilate the content of the history of the white race that William Pierce wrote, and those who want to delve into how Christianity undermined Aryan morality, the translation of Deschner that appears in the sidebar.
St. John Chrysostom exhorting Aelia Eudoxia. Note how the Empress—the spouse of the Roman Emperor Arcadius—, in this painting by Jean-Paul Laurens, has people in her Byzantine entourage who are not whites.
Editor’s note: In a nationalist forum last month a commenter said:
A BS narrative that makes no sense. The idea that Jews created Christianity to subjugate the world is absurd and has no basis in historical fact. Anyone with a basic knowledge of history knows that anti-Jewish Rome and Byzantium spread Christianity—to the Jews disfavour.
It is true that some Jews suffered with the Christian emperors from the times of Constantine, but it cannot be said that the spread of Christianity was unfavourable to them. Quite the contrary: by the time of the reign of Theodosius II only two religions were legal in the Roman Empire: Judaism and Christianity! Not gratuitously I called ‘Apocalypse for Whites’ my translations of Evropa Soberana’s book on Judea vs. Rome.
The mentioned commenter does not seem to understand the double-edged strategy of the Semitic Christians of the Ancient World. Contemporary Jews are capable to withstand the open anti-Semitism of millions of Muslim migrants. Why they do that? Because they want to dilute the blood of the Aryan Man within his own land. In the same way, in the Ancient World they tolerated some repression since Constantine and his successors in order to annihilate the Greco-Roman culture of the Hellenes (i.e., the White culture), their true enemy.
Byzantium took over after the Western Roman Empire collapse. Byzantium had far more riches than Rome and its rule lasted 1,000 years. The Jews were greatly restricted under Byzantium rule. Again, you demonstrate your historical ignorance.
Does the commenter ignore that in the times of Byzantium (Constantinople) a war was fought—a war of ethnic cleansing of pure Whites instigated by St. John Chrysostom? When Karlheinz Deschner writes below about a mood, ‘typical of the anti-Germanism that prevailed in Constantinople’, one must keep in mind that the xenophobic muds of the old Byzantium disliked the blond Nordics and massacred 7,000 of them, women and children included.
Christian readers of the history of Constantinople, even those who comment in Alt-Right forums, usually don’t care about the ethnicity of the residents of the Mud City that Constantine had founded. Not even Richard Spencer has cared about it when he mentions Byzantium in glowing terms. New visitors of this site who have not read Evropa Soberana’s essay should read it now (see sticky post), together with the only histories about the White race, by William Pierce and Arthur Kemp, that have been written.
Karlheinz Deschner wrote:
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The massacre of Goths in Constantinople
Arcadius, who was still a boy, was named Augustus in 383 and in 384 became independent sovereign of the East. He was educated first by his mother Aelia Flaccilla, a strict Catholic, and then by the deacon Arsenius, who came from Rome. Although not without training—even a pagan, Themistius, prefect of Constantinople, had been his teacher—, the monarch always depended on his advisors and also his wife Aelia Eudoxia (mother of St. Pulcheria and Theodosius II): a determined anti-German, that pushed Arcadius against the ‘heretics’ and the followers of the old faith, and who largely directed his internal policy. On August 7, 395, the emperor, who was then seventeen years old, censured the negligence of the authorities in the persecution of idolatrous cults.
General Gainas, an Arian Goth, who rose rapidly in the Roman army, had succeeded in the meantime. He was in 394 in the war against Eugenius; in 395, in the campaign of Stilicho against Alaric. Gainas participated next in the murder of Rufinus, and from 396 to 399, under the command of Eutropius, became et magister utrius que militiae.One day they sent Gainas to the leaders of the party opposed to the Germans, their greatest adversary: the consul Aurelian, the consular Saturninus and the clerk John. However, the Goth only touched them with the sword, manifestly implying that they would have deserved death, and sent them into exile.
Now, after an unfortunate operation in the year 399 against the Goth Tribigild, who had risen in arms, Gainas fell into suspicion. Also in Constantinople, as a reaction to the pillages of the Goths, the tributes of war and all kinds of demagogues, a rigorous national orientation had developed, a remarkable anti-Germanism ‘represented mainly by Orthodox Christians’ (Heinzberger). The people, incited with rumours, hated the Germans, the ‘barbarians’ and the Arian ‘heretics’, who even aspired to have their own church in the capital. For this reason, Gainas maintained a lively polemic with patriarch John Chrysostom, who tried vehemently to ‘convert’ the Goths and who had assigned to the Catholic Goths a temple of their own, the church of Saint Paul, thus becoming ‘the founder of a German national church in Constantinople’ (Baur, Catholic).
However, the bishop strictly banned Arian religious services. He protested before the emperor against the requests of Gainas of a church of his own. Expletives against the Arians and the remaining ‘heretics’ were unleashed. He prayed insistently to the sovereign, dominated by Eudoxia, the anti-German fanatic—since the year 400 she was considered ‘August’—who did not allow the dogs to be thrown at the saint. It is better to lose the throne than to betray the house of God. Compare this to the similar advice given by Chrysostom’s colleague, Ambrose. The intervention of the bishop encouraged the citizens, with whom conflicts had already taken place. They rebelled in the so-called ‘hot summer of the year 400’, probably due to xenophobia, the differences between the two peoples. ‘However, what was decisive was the confessional antagonism; the shedding of blood begins, curiously, when Gainas demands for its Argive Goths the concession of a church’ (Aland).
The national party, which had armed the citizens, attacked along with the Roman garrison and the palace guard, the Goth minority. Gainas was saved with a part of his troops on the night of July 12, 400, when the assault took place at the city gate. However, many of their soldiers, along with their wives and children, were killed or burned inside the ‘church of the Goths’, where they had sought refuge; in total, apparently, more than seven thousand people. It occurred ‘at the instigation of Bishop Chrysostom’ (Ludwig), though perhaps to a greater extent at the behest of the later Bishop Synesius. His manifestations as an emissary are typical of the anti-Germanism that prevailed in Constantinople.
The prestige of St. John Chrysostom ‘was reinforced by these disturbances’. Nevertheless, it was not, as the Catholic Stockmeier thinks, because he was ‘above the parties’ but because he was on the side of the victors. The Catholics, who avoided the open struggle, removed the roof of the church and massacred the ‘barbarians’ with a shower of burning stones and beams, killing every last one of them (thirty-four years before, the procedure had already given good results in Rome in the fight between two popes). After the battle, they sang a thanksgiving to heaven and Chrysostom once again praised the man who directed human destinies in his sermon.
The fugitive Gainas, now officially an enemy of the State, went to Thrace to join his people on the other side of the lower Danube. However, after the annihilation of his army, on crossing the Hellespont on 23 December of the year 400, he was killed and his head sent to Constantinople at the beginning of the following year.
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To contextualise these translations of Karlheinz Deschner’s history of the Church in 10-volumes, Kriminalgeschichte des Christentums, read the abridged translationof Volume I.